


Under the Storm

by seductivejello



Series: Jörmungandr's Odyssey [1]
Category: Norse Religion & Lore
Genre: Author does what Author wants, Author has limited knowledge of WWI, BAMF Jörmungandr, Brief mentions of Hel Fenrir Angrboda Loki and Thor, Field Doctor Jörmungandr, First time posting so play nice, Gen, Joining a war effort was not quite a good means to that end, Jörmungandr can shapeshift into a humanoid because Author said so, Jörmungandr has been trying to cope with banishment for a long time, Male OC that's mentioned once, Nonbinary Jörmungandr, Not Canon Compliant, Shapeshifting Jörmungandr, So probably many inaccuracies incoming, Who is also Not Currently Having a Good Time because war is hell, World War I, not canon whatsoever
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-17 02:15:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29342676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seductivejello/pseuds/seductivejello
Summary: Jörmungandr, Serpent of Midgard and resident of Earth, shares in the misery of a pointless war alongside many others. Sheltered from bombs in the twisted sanctuary of an underground bunker, what protection the troops had from shrapnel did little to calm the grip fear and anxiety held on them. All the while a grieving protagonist gave their attempts to ward off despair.
Series: Jörmungandr's Odyssey [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2155326
Comments: 1
Kudos: 2





	Under the Storm

Jörmungandr looked to the ceiling, the one that rhythmically shuddered under the force of bombshells. The air of the shelter hung heavy over the troop of soldiers, choking up many of them to tears. It had been a while any of their younger brothers in arms had attempted to break for the exit in a fit of pressed desperation. The boy, 17 years of age, that most recently lost composure to the storm now sat across the wall from Jörmungandr. Arms brought to his face and curled into his knees, the young recruit they had come to know as Sean silently wept in the shameful hopelessness that overcame him. 

Jörmungandr knew hopelessness, the terror that came with a nightmare that refused to relent. Their mother slaughtered at the hands of Asgardians, siblings torn from their side, drifting ashore, alone, in a world where they had nothing and no one, Jörmungandr was well acquainted with despair. It was a beast that had been clawing at the edges of their soul for a very long time. 

The soldiers did not know of Jörmungandr’s true name, that was a key to their heart that they intended to keep to their chest. They didn’t need to know about any of the history their banishment left scattered among the stars long ago. So long ago and so far away that Jörmungandr often found themself questioning its continuity. The worst of it fell to one time they had failed to remember Hel’s face. Luckily, they proved able to find it again, deep in the shadowed edges of their memory, but the panic of having forgotten it, even for a fleeting moment, would upset them for many weeks to come.

Oh, it had been so dreadfully long since Jörmungandr last saw their sister’s coal-black hair, sharp cheekbones and emerald eyes, or their brother’s obsidian fur and cheery smile. Even their most tearful days, cooped up in Asgard’s walls, they and their siblings haunted by circumstances of their mother’s recent murder, Jörmungandr found themself longing for. The comfort of a home, of a family, lingered beyond the serpent’s reach for far too long to bear.

Sometimes Jörmungandr would allow themself to ponder, to think of them. More than sometimes they wrote letters to their kin, some rural fairy tales or folklore they’d come across on their journeys across Earth they would address to Fenrir or Hel. They knew Hel especially would really enjoy the stories Jörmungandr compiled about the kindly borsch grandmother or tricky Japanese yokai. Occasionally they would be spilling their woes and grievances, or even excitement about a theatre production, to their father. If Jörmungandr came across a harrowing escape from the clutches of fate at sea, that letter they would write to Thor. Thor had always been kind to them during their stay in the Asgardian palace, much kinder than most. Of course, that didn’t matter now, none of it did. All the people Jörmungandr knew in their childhood were now so, unbearably far away. 

Jörmungandr often broke down in tears over the page before they could sign their name. Whenever they found themselves able, they would always sign the letter under the name Jörmungandr; rather than their alias name Nielle. The chances of Jörmungandr's family ever receiving even one of the letters were astronomically implausible at best, they knew that. But grief can make a person do strange things, Jörmungandr thought. 

In the shelter, Jörmungandr wasn’t in the mood for letters nor writing on the ground. They sat, absentmindedly rubbing over medical tools with a washcloth before wrapping the cleaned implements in cloth. They didn’t care much for battles and glory, but they did for people, so they had enlisted in the French ranks as a field doctor. No person in the periodically-shaken room needed immediate medical assistance, their coworker had checked some time ago, and Jörmungandr would have smelt the blood, so they had time to wash tools and soak in the surrounding melancholy. 

After wrapping up a bundle of scalpels, they retrieved their bone saw from its case on their belt. Jörmungandr would have cringed at the reminder of the sheer quantity of amputations, the desperate screams, the reeks of infection, and the deaths they’d performed and experienced since the war had started. But as it stood, with their eyelids low, back slouched and heart heavy, they were just too tired. Just dead tired, and their emotions much the same, it seemed. 

Yet another impact came to the shelter like a grandiose bolt of lightning, rattling metal and making the room flinch. Jörmungandr took their hand and cloth off of the bone saw. In the metal, they gazed at the reflection of ichor eyes and a mournful, wounded expression for a moment, before covering it back up with a move of their hand. Today would not be the day they let despair take them, and if they stared at the look on their face any longer, they might have.

**Author's Note:**

> This may be the first of many times I write about Jörmungandr because they are my favorite Earth snake, this one might be continued into some sort of coming of age/ call to action story if I get my hands on some ideas I'm really inspired by. So, if any of you have any comments, suggestions, musings, middle-English prose, typos to report, qualms, dramatic declarations of adoration, or ideas do not hesitate to stick those in the comments, I'd love to hear them. With that being said, thank you all for reading, I hope you've enjoyed it.


End file.
